


Hit ‘em Hard, Let It Ring Out.

by Wolf_Lettuce



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Drug Use, Fluffy Moments, I write with a poetic style so if you cant understand anything RIP, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, lets be real, most of this shit is depressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-03-08 01:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_Lettuce/pseuds/Wolf_Lettuce
Summary: Mikey was lonely.Pete was lonely.Pills are a viable option when your big brother is fucking your bestfriend, right?Pills are a viable option when your girlfriend dumps you due to your sexuality, right?Right?





	1. They shared a drug stash; I only shared the forked tongues inside my head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pixeldreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixeldreamer/gifts).



It was so simple really.

 

Gerard had left his Doxepin in a grimy, dust ridden, hard plastic Ziplock container on the counter in their kitchenette of their bus.

 

Gerard was asleep above him, Ray across the aisle, Bob above Ray.

And above him, Mikey could also hear the soft, cigarette burned, snore of Frank.

No doubt that Frank was settled flush against Gerard’s body, Gerard’s hand still stuck in the elastic band of Frank’s briefs, hand lovingly resting on his thigh, not groping, just reassuring.

 

Oh, how nice that must be, human contact, alien devotion,

 

Mikey swung his legs around, unfurling his long, lanky body.

His feet hit the fraying, slate gray carpet of the buses cabin, Mikey wriggled his toes in the cool current under the soles of his feet.

 

Mikey turned his hallowed head toward the sleepers in front of him, admiring the characteristic hair, the blissful, blank mug of REM.

Looking sincerely at Ray, Mikey gave his sleeping, prone body a soft, apologetic smile.

A smile saved for friends of mourners after a funeral.

One reserved for those on their deathbed still receiving daily injections.

 

“It will get better” this smile proposes.

Of course,

This smile holds no promises.

 

Mikey leaned out towards Ray, ghosting in front his sleeping frame, a lovers grasp away, a sliver of an inch more and Mikey could’ve placed a chaste kiss upon Ray’s sleeping lips, but no.

Ray had already tried to intertwine into Mikey’s vibe.

 

Mikey knew it was a curious, drunk, drug hazed, experimentative, stupid, five minute pin up in their shared hotel room bathroom.

Mikey knew that the wet, sloppy kisses on his neck were just post-show after shock.

Mikey knew that the water and spit covered, guitar string calloused, finicky flying fingers inside him that night were just a simple flop.

Mikey knew that he shouldn’t have missed the feeling of blunt bruises from the shower backdrop as Ray pushed him up towards the spout, reaching for the perfect angle as Mikey gave unforgettable wanton moans, mouth slack, catching tap water, and Ray’s words.

 

Mikey knew all of this,

Yet, how could he not miss them?

 

Mikey finished rising, knees popping loudly in the dark, almost right in front of Ray’s sleeping face.

 

Ray never stirred, nor did the obnoxious, everlasting snoring of bob, however,

Frank stirred.

Frank stirred in the form of a high pitched, feminine whine, groaning off at the end with a broken obscenity.

 

Of course Mikey had only managed to stir the exploring hand of his big brother.

Brilliant.

 

Mikey began the somber trek towards their kitchenette, overfilled Ziplock container in his minds vision, His bare toes seemed to sink downwards with each step, each shadowed step closer to a lover.

For, if Mikey could not have a women at his arm, nor man on his breast, then he would find romance in prescribed toxins.

Not foolish, as some might believe, Mikeys’ solemn form trudged on, one bony, outstretched hand making large, slow waves, into the particle board of the buses cabin.

 

A small, ominous, blue night-light, cast itself at Mikey, attempting to be soothed, so it seemed.

 

The Blue seek out the Blue.

 

The lonely insomniacs of this world crowd under street lights, reading poetic entities from their brains to those who will listen, taking slow drags of petrol station cigarettes, and drinking from the necks of cheap liqueur bottles, trying to quiet the monstrous, pendulous, forked tongues inside their skulls.

A different Light Post each night, perhaps, the same one.

Yet, in the shallow hours before dawn, as night still licks into alley ways, and as fledglings roost.

There will always be those kids under the fading light, of the savior posts.

 

Mikey reached out toward the light, to soothe it.

Twisting his soul into his hands, intertwining with the indigo light, letting it reach up above his wrist, into the crook of his elbow, but never surpassing his shadow shrouded face.

 

He took a step toward Bob’s bullshit beer stash under the faux granite counter top, inside a scratched and beaten cupboard.

It tasted like sweat and musk, Bob had said it reminded him of sex.

Mikey had once told him that, “Broom Closet Sex only tasted that way,” To which Bob had hit him on the back of his head, and laughed when Mikey had cried out.

 

Mikey slowly opened the creaking cupboard, revealing the ever so pungent dishwater blowjob that resided in those contaminated cans.

He reached for the one nearest to him, the can printed with a crude, half dressed model staring back at him.

Bob’s need to continuously reinstate his heterosexuality on a bus full of queers was almost appalling at times.

Mikey placed the forsaken beer on the counter, and glanced over at his antidote, or anecdote wrapped allegory. Mikey carefully slid the container over, letting the left lip of it over look the half installed

sink, and stared down blankly, at his prize.

 

Bottles laid in the tub, Indalpine, Zimelidine, Etoperidone, Atomoxetine, Phenoxypropazine, And finally, the most recently re-filled, heavy in weight, his beloved, Doxepin.

 

A shaking hand latched onto the white prescription lid, lifting it up, tumbling the opaque tablets inside the absurd orange casing.

Mikey gave the same solemn smile to this vessel.

 

The “She’s in a better place” Smile.

 

Mikey overlooked the pills for a moment, and caught glimpse of another container.

Tucked away snugly, between Gerards’ Etoperidone and Indalpine, A pink, slightly translucent, Tupperware bowl, fitted with fading stickers of eighties hardcore rock bands, sharpie hearts, felt pen penises, and an all too familiar ‘XO-G’ laid in his wake.

 

Mikey carefully set the Doxepin down, and reached towards the mysterious pink container, lifting it up, hesitantly.

Mikey squinted his eyes to better see the name scrawled into the lid, Frankie, it read back to him.

Name scribbled sideways, the ‘F’ swooping down almost to reach the lip of the container, all letters capitalized, of utmost importance.

 

Mikey was growing furious, no, not furious, he was turning green.

Envy or sickness be it so.

 

Mikey re-opened his eyes, one wrist coming to rest upon the lid, fingers pulled forward, ready to inspect the contents.

Mikey pulled back, hearing the plastic release it’s grip, the lid coming off.

He stared blankly at its holdings.

 

Small, slightly compact balls of herbs laid at the bottom of the pink container, Mikey took an experimental sniff, plunging his nose halfway into the green and taking a large sniff, almost to drop the entire thing on the cheap linoleum.

 

It was Frank’s weed.

 

Frank’s weed was snuggled up close into Gerard’s drugs.

 

Mikey did not know at the time why this infuriated him so.

Mikey threw the lid back on and shoved it back in with the pills, the pills rattling in their tombs, a cacophony of noise from all the tablets.

 

Mikey snatched up his big brothers Doxepin, unscrewing the lid in pure fury, jerking the bottle to the side, pills feigning a leap to the floor.

He vigorously shook out eight of the 200 mg tablets out on to his shaking palm, not quaking in fear, but of excitement.

 

Mikey was finally finding a lover.

Mikey was finally finding a friend.

 

Mikey placed the bitter poison upon his tongue, and reached for the crude, pale, acidic yeast.

He roughly pulled the tab, air hissing into the otherwise quiet night, and brought the cold metal lip of the can to his own, knocking his head back and chugging vile fluid.

 

Half way through the can, Mikey still felt a lump of pills in his throat, whether it were nerves, or actual pills, that is still up for debate.

Mikey took massive dregs out of the can, moaning at the stale taste, eyebrows furrowing as he sucked the liquid down his throat, flooding every sense, and resting, as hard stones, in his stomach.

 

He had finished the can, the pills, and his search.

The bottle back in the Ziplock, smashed hard against Frank’s cannabis.

His mind on his stomach, churning, trying to compute the new information, the Virus.

 

Mikey arched his head back, the solemn smile returning, as he swayed with the movements of the road underneath the bus.

 

Ready for bed, finally tired, finally accompanied by another entity, other than his own inside his brain, Mikey threw the can in the bin behind him, and took a deep breath.

 

Maybe.

 

Maybe it was enough.

 

Mikey turned around, facing the cabin, and froze.

 

Between him and his destination stood frank.

 

Wide eyed, mouth open, hands on the sides of the door-frame, maybe for support, he was clad in only his black briefs.

They were tented, a small darkened spot in the front.

 

Fucking Hell.

 

Mikey looked at him with a pleading eye.

He opened his mouth to ask him to just go back to sleep, just let Ray take care of his body in the morning, they could find a better bass player.

 

All that came out was a strangled groan as his stomach began to churn harshly, the tide against him.

Mikey grabbed at his stomach, a hiss and grimace coming out of his maw.

 

That was what sent frank into action.

 

“GERARD!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Of simple comforts such as cherry wine and ex's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We now see Pete's pain.

The hotel room layout was simple, really.

Walk in, poorly lit bathroom to your left, clothing rack rigged on your right, TV stand mounting a broken voice, It didn’t even turn on for fuck’s sake,  
Past that were the overly starched, frequently stained, sheets resting atop a single, double bed.

Ah, yes, perfect, only one bed, how poetic.

Patrick’s on hand tour bag was squished in the furthest corner of the room, and the shower was on, however both of the persons in the room still felt the awkward tension that lingered between them.

The scene left a bitter taste in Pete’s mouth, his mind going back to the happenings just before this tour.

She, the nameless face haunting his gray matter, had left him.

For cheating?  
No.

For being foolish?  
Perhaps, but no.

For being mental?  
Not a chance.

It was his fault really, letting little Ol’ Patrick sit and spill his guts in the living room, but how could he have not?

You see, his girlfriend had dumped him as well, for a worse cause of course, one that almost made Pete excuse himself whilst Patrick sat on the couch crying, attempting to vocalize what had happened that night, all the while, poor, precious Patrick hid himself behind a throw-pillow, his glasses resting on the edge of his nose.

She had left him because of his weight.

No, Not left him, more along the lines of:  
Patrick came home, fresh news about tour, pure, elastic joy springing across his face about extra money coming in to pay rent.  
And with his sweet, kind, grin he had opened the door only to find his girlfriend, wrapped up, asleep with their landlord.

Pure, Sweet, Sickeningly nice Patrick didn’t even have the heart to wake them up, so he, being the adult he was, grabbed his guitar case from the living room, scrawled a note on a post it, hailed a taxi, and did not spill a single tear as Chicago rain fell on the window.

Patrick didn’t spill a single drop of pain on the way to Pete’s apartment, but as soon as Pete opened the door, eyeliner still painted on thick from their interview, Patrick fell right into his arms dragging his guitar case with him.

This brings us back to the sofa.  
On the sofa was a crying, wallowing in pain and grief, Pete’s best, broken, friend.

Veronica, no, Valerie, no, Valentina, no, whatever her name was, was out again on the town, hanging with girlfriends from out of state and drinking cheap liquor at dives.

A note was tacked on the fridge with a circular magnet,  
“Out with the girls, don’t wait up, sorry maybe tmrw nite, xoxo -v”

Pete had been stood up, dinner still wrapped in tin foil on the stove, candles melted down onto the cheap table linen, table set, chipped china untouched, the bottle of cherry wine, however, was properly open and nearly drained,

Pete sipping it as he listened to Patrick hiccup and curse himself for not looking like his best friend, for being worthless, and disgusting, for being pathetic, for not weighing as much as a feather, for having stretchmarks, for wearing glasses, for not working out, for not being perfect, for-

“Pat, listen, I love you for what you are, you’re a genius, you’re smarter than all of the band combined, you come up with chords that shouldn’t make sense but do, you make everyone smile, but most importantly, you keep me alive.”

Patrick stopped his flood of negativity, and wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve, “r-Really, Pete? You mean that?”

Pete sighed, “Yes, Pat, I do.. here.” Pete lifted the almost empty bottle of wine to Patrick.

“But I’m not-” Patrick began, Pete smiled, “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.” And with that, Patrick gingerly lifted the bottle to his lips.

Pete watched as Patrick’s face contorted with the first sip, Patrick took three more small sips, his face slowly relaxing as he took on larger gulps, pretty soon Pete was witnessing an underage Patrick suck down cherry wine vigorously, his face red and wet from crying, his hair wet from the rain, and to top it all off, Patrick was making obscene noises in between gulps, moaning at the taste in his mouth in between breaths.

The sight made Pete shift on the sofa cushion.

When Patrick finished the bottle he let out a groan of disappointment, taking it away from his lips left a string of saliva connected to the bottle, Pete smirked and took the bottle away from him, setting it down on the hardwood floor, and looked back at Patrick.

Pete drank in the sight before him, Patrick had a new red to his cheeks, his breath came in long low sighs, and his lips were wet with his own spit and cherry wine that hadn’t made it into his mouth.

Pete saw Patrick’s face in a new light, he saw how soft Patrick’s face was, how cute he was like this, a drunken cherub on his living room sofa.

Patrick smiled dumbly at Pete, his face now taking on the tone of delight rather than the previous depression, “Thanks Peter Pan, I really needed that.” Patrick gave a small laugh, mirthful, Pete smiled back, taking in how his eyes crinkled behind his glasses, and his cheeks pushed his glasses further up his nose from the force of his smile.

Whatever would’ve happened, happened.

Pete steadied Patrick with a hand on his cheek, Patrick froze, confused, Pete swiped his thumb across Patrick’s wet lips, picking up the cherry wine off satin.

And Patrick, god help him, whined, and full on pushed his head further into Pete’s hand.

Pete grabbed onto Patrick, almost with a vengeance, smashing him into an ugly embrace.

Teeth clacking together, tears staining Pete’s face, not his of course.  
Patrick’s mouth opened with a small moan, the poor thing touch starved, Pete pushed Patrick back onto the futon with vigor, Patrick’s glasses re situated themselves back into the crook of his nose with the force of Pete attacking his mouth, Pete could taste sweet cherry wine mixed with Patrick, and he groaned, pushing one hand into Patrick’s soft hair the other reaching down in between them, trying to snake under Patrick’s shirt.

Patrick froze, panic evident on his child like face. 

Pete felt Patrick’s clumsy fingers pry at his own.

Pete grasped Patrick’s hand in his own and stared deep into his eyes.

“Pat, you are beautiful, you are not disgusting, you...you are just perfect to me.”

Pete watched hurt morph to confusion in Patrick’s eyes, letting his guard down, allowing Pete to move his hand underneath his shirt, Pete placed a warm hand on Patrick’s stomach, rubbing small circles into his supple flesh.

“See? Still beautiful, still perfect.”

Pete watched confusion finally turn into compassion in Patrick’s eyes.

Patrick smiled, and wrapped an arm around Pete’s neck, pulling him down into another sloppy, but love filled kiss.

And, Of course, when everything was going right in Pete’s world.

 

 

 

The moment was ruined by a flash and click of a camera phone.

**Author's Note:**

> If you do not read Herb as 'Her-b' then you're doing it wrong


End file.
